


memories are mapped out by the lines we'll trace

by elainebarrish



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, F/M, Getting Together, Just So We're Clear, M/M, Polyamory, Slow Burn, like all of the others r just background 2 them getting together, this fic is abt mary/irene, this is at it's core a f/f fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 16:43:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7626214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elainebarrish/pseuds/elainebarrish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>irene knows who you are, and that's dangerous, but she has no intention of exposing you, and eventually it doesn't matter, eventually you expose yourself, and you still have irene and john and it's the best way you could have ever imagined this working out. You love her, maybe, well you love her wit and the way her eyes sparkle when she laughs, and she loves that you can be mean occasionally and that you absolutely adore abba when you're drunk. you make it work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	memories are mapped out by the lines we'll trace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [helenecixous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenecixous/gifts), [firelordazulas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firelordazulas/gifts).



> I just wna say that I literally hate everything that Sherlock chooses to be and I've seen literally like two episodes, 2x01 + 3x03, and all of mary's scenes in 3x01 + 3x02. I love women and Moffat doesn't lmao. Mary is incredible I love her + Irene is a lesbian. also I wrote this in like three hours or smth so idk

Irene is a figure from your past, someone that you had never expected but should have known would be an associate of Sherlock’s. He had a talent for getting involved where he wasn’t wanted. John still doesn’t know, Sherlock isn’t anywhere near guessing, and you wonder how much longer you can keep this up in a world where Sherlock knows people like Irene Adler. She recognises you, you know she does, even with the smile on your face and the ring on your finger and the pink cardigan you’re wearing. She doesn’t say anything, and you hope that there won’t be a second time where she might feel that she has the opportunity to. She discreetly asks you to ring her, slips a card into your pocket, and you’re confused as to why because before you were never much more than passing acquaintances, and you’d killed enough of your clients that you had assumed that she’d be wary of you. You learn that she is wary of very little, that she has no qualms when it comes to throwing herself into dangerous situations, when it comes to interacting with dangerous people (you also learn that this is because she has a strong will to survive, not the opposite). You don’t ring her.

You do see her again, though, on a different case, while you’re trying to plan your wedding, and you’re almost glad of the distraction. She asks you to ring her, again, tells you that she has business to discuss, and when you do she tells you about Magnussen, about the threat he poses. You ask her about the threat that she poses, and she tells you that it’s very small, so long as you’re nice to her. You visit her. She smiles and offers you tea and both of you complain about the old days a little, about people you both had known. She gives you background on Moriarty that John hadn’t known, and you don’t know how she knows or how she’s still alive while she does. You ask, and she just says that Moriarty had more to worry about while he had Sherlock on his plate (and that he was maybe a little obsessed with him).

She calls you while you’re at work, and you can practically see the smirk that she always wears, and she tells you that she’s bored, and you tell her that you’re at work. She laughs when you mention that you’re a nurse now, that you had gone from killing people to healing them, and she inquires how you managed to falsify the necessary records.

“I didn’t. I went to nursing school.” There’s a pause and then she laughs, rich and low and surprisingly loud.

“You wasted three years doing exams and examining old people?”

“I did. And I found that I rather enjoyed “examining old people”, as you put it.”

“Aren’t you bored?” She asks, and you have to admit that you are, that this got boring a while ago, that you miss adrenaline and the feeling of a gun in your hand, that you miss the contents of that innocuous storage locker that John and the police could never find out about.

“Let’s do something fun.”

“Can it preferably be something legal?” She laughs, her voice still deep and husky like it always was, and you wonder if she ever stops, if she ever just gives up on trying to seduce every person she speaks to.

“It doesn’t matter whether it’s legal or not if we don’t get caught, darling,” her voice is even lower, and you just laugh.

“Fun” in Irene’s book actually just turns out to be drinks in the VIP section in the kind of bar that you had to be on the guest list to even gain entrance to.

“So what’s illegal about this?” You question as you accept the mojito pushed in your direction.

“Well I happen to know the owner and it’s actually a front for a drug smuggling operation. And he has a small problem with a competitor, so I thought you could offer your services,” she takes a sip of her drink, still smirking. You want to find a way to stop her being so smug, but you think that that can wait, you can drag it out.

“I think I’d prefer to drink about four of these and maybe dance a little,” you smile, raising your glass, and she laughs.

“You’d only have to sneak in and deliver a warning. No more deaths on your conscience.”

“I only work for myself now. Also beating someone up so that someone else can continue smuggling drugs into the country probably wouldn’t sit particularly well on my conscience either.”

“Your great reputation felled by your foolish human feelings, oh Moriarty would be disappointed.”

“That’s usually a good thing.” The two of you do drink several cocktails and dance, and you stumble back to yours with a spinning head and a smile on your face. You’re never foolish enough to drink a lot around people that you’re lying by omission to, and you’re glad that John doesn’t wake up as you sneak into bed next to him.

Irene calls you and sounds positively miserable, and you’re glad to learn that she experiences hangovers just the same as everyone else.

“That’s the most legal fun I’ve had in a while,” she admits, her voice even rougher after all of the loud singing that was indulged in the night before (also you vaguely remember the two of you shouting at someone in a chip shop, and you’re a little sure that it might have been about gravy).

“I thought that all of your work was fun,” you reply, and stare at your computer screen, and hope that the painkillers kick in soon.

“It is, but it’s not the same sort of fun. Also nothing compares to the macarena after four cocktails.”

“I can think of a few things,” you reply, and you don’t mean the flirtatious tone that happens without your permission, you really don’t.

“I really hope you don’t mean sex with John.” You can’t help the answering laugh, and it’s loud enough that one of the other nurses in the room looks up, eyebrow raised.

“I’m going to ignore that you said that and hang up,” your tone is light and you end the call to the sound of her husky chuckle. You think you might have got yourself into something a bit dangerous, and you smile at that.

She becomes something of a regular presence, someone who sends you texts at odd hours complaining about clients or about being bored and occasionally about a criminal enterprise she wants you to take up. You get married, and you invite her, but she says that she has approximately less than zero interest in ever seeing Sherlock again, and it’s bad enough that she has to see him when she ends up involved in a case. You don’t get pregnant, and neither you nor John mind. If it happens you’ll be happy about it, but if it doesn’t then you’ll still be happy. You do want a baby, but not in a way that’s life-consuming, not in a way that means you would not be absolutely content growing old without one. John and Sherlock and texts from Irene are more than enough, more than you thought you’d ever be in a position to receive. Then Magnussen happens, and you can’t believe that Sherlock just happens to be there on the same fucking night as you. Christmas comes and goes, and John forgives you, and you barely talk to Irene, not because you think it’ll cause even more problems in regards to you being redeemed in John’s eyes, but because you want to go careening into her arms because you’ve lived out the tension the two of you share, not because you’re upset about John.

John had told you, before Sherlock even came back, the true extent of his and Sherlock’s relationship, and when he does reappear you tell him it’s fine, that you’d never make him choose. And through everything that happens, even through almost killing the man that he loves, this dynamic works. Sherlock and John, Mary and John, they’re two separate entities, and Sherlock and Mary remains a good solid friendship. You tell John about Irene, about how you’d once known each other, about the tension that has been present since you met again, and he’s happy for you. You and John are safe within your knowledge that you love each other, it’s just that you love other people too, and neither of you has a problem with the other expressing that.

Irene invites you out again, as she does on a regular basis, and she’s glad that John has forgiven you, glad that you agreed to come, and she smirks as she makes a comment about having your husband’s blessing that you ignore. The two of you continue your routine of flirting and drinking and dancing and swaying closer but not close enough, and you wonder if she’s waiting for you to kiss her first. You can be very patient when the mood strikes, and you do love the moments before attraction is acted on, so why not revel in them.

She shows up in your house a few nights out and a collection of phone calls later, and you’re glad that John isn’t home because as much as this is okay he’s never really liked Irene. You know that that’s just because he doesn’t much like it when people that Sherlock isn’t interested in express an interest in him. Unrequited feelings have always made him uncomfortable, and it’s just because he doesn’t like embarrassment, even when it isn’t his. Irene’s long over that unfortunate phase anyway.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” You ask, smiling as you take off your scarf and coat and throw your bag onto the sofa.

“I missed you,” she said simply, her voice silken and smooth and just a touch deeper than usual.

“You want something,” you reply immediately, and she sighs.

“You’re so good at reading me I just don’t understand why you haven’t done anything about this delightful tension that we have.”

You’re still smiling as you step further into the room, sitting on the coffee table in front of your sofa that she’s reclining on like she belongs here. “I haven’t done anything because I was testing your restraint, seeing how long you could hold out for. You did much better than I was expecting, actually.”

“That’s just cruel,” she pouts, lips painted ruby red regardless of the kissing that was clearly her intention when she came here, but you consider that that’s maybe why. She always has liked marking things.

“If you want something, why don’t you do something about it?” You challenge, and she narrows her eyes, but sits up straight all the same.

She kisses like she’s trying to fight, like she knows she can win, but you just match her with softness, you don’t rise to it, and she pulls back.

“What are you -?” she asks, wary like you’re trying to trick her, and you smile as you reach out and slowly, carefully, wipe some of her lipstick back into place.

“I’ve enjoyed our flirtation, but I’ve also enjoyed getting to know you. I’d like to go for dinner?” You lick your lips and can taste her lipstick, feel the chalkiness on your skin. You have a brief thought that you should buy some more chapstick.

“What kind of dinner?” she asks, still wary, posture perfect in your small living room, and you wonder when was the last she was asked for dinner in an embarking upon a relationship capacity. She probably didn’t meet all that many charming women in her profession.

“The romantic kind. With candles and small talk and a kiss in front of your house at the end of the night. Unless that’s not what you want?”

“No, I-” she paused, and then her usual flirtatious-ness came back to the surface. You know it’s not a facade, that she just likes seeing how many people a day can be overwhelmed by her sharp cheekbones and deep voice and piercing blue eyes, and that she enjoys the times that you do get slightly flustered, as rarely as that happens. “I still want to get you into bed, Mary Watson, and if I have to set out on wooing you first then I will.”

“I don’t just want wooing, I want a romantic relationship. The kind where you have a shitty day at work so I come over with some wine and we watch Love Actually and then you maybe get to sleep with me.” You’re smiling as she looks vaguely alarmed. “If you don’t also want that then we can go back to tension and trying not to kiss each other over cocktails.”

She considers you for a long moment, and then she leans forward, slowly, and you let her kiss you again, and this time she’s soft and you notice that her hand’s cold as she buries it under your hair while she kisses you lightly and slowly and in a way that feels more like a beginning. When she pulls away she’s slightly flushed, breathing heavily, and looks surprised. “I’ll think about it.” Is all she says, and then she disappears.

You get a text a few days later, and it just says “I’ve had a shitty day, any chance of wine + Love Actually?” You smile and tell John you have to go see Irene, kissing him on the cheek as you pull on your coat.


End file.
